


Viceroy

by SofiaBane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bottom Voldemort (Harry Potter), Creature Fic, Enemies to Lovers, Luxury porn, M/M, Naga, Politics, Slice of Life, Sorry for all the conventions of creaturefic I'll miss, Voldemort has a snake fetish because of course he fucking does, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21936073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SofiaBane/pseuds/SofiaBane
Summary: Harry will marry Voldemort to end the war. Harry also takes a potion that turns him into a naga every night. This is hardly a problem for Voldemort.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 18
Kudos: 655
Collections: Chamber of Secrets' Winter Exchange (2019)





	Viceroy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stph/gifts).



> Written for stphel on the tomarrymort discord. Thanks so much for the prompt, I loved writing this, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Shoutout to the facebook group Jokes on you I fuck monsters, which has taught me everything I know about monster fucking. No shoutout to the actual good wholesome snake groups I follow, because I’m sure they would not be pleased with how I’ve misappropriated that knowledge, lmao.

Harry is eighteen and he’s never left Hogwarts. It has served as a fortress for the past year and a half, as long as the war has gone on. Dumbledore reinforced their wards, enchanted supply lines to be brought in directly, and told all the of-age students that if they stayed, they would be staying for the duration of the war. Of course Harry was among them, but so was everyone else, and now they breathe in the stale magic-stickied air of the castle all day, only seeing the sky when there’s a skirmish outside.

Dumbledore routinely fucks off. Nobody else is allowed to. And while Harry has asked where he goes, he’s never seen fit to tell him. Fine. Harry passes the days studying dueling, Occlumency, healing magic.

And then there’s a day in early December, when Dumbledore brings Harry into his office. “I am writing to Voldemort,” he says, taking a seat behind his desk. “For a ceasefire.”

“… If he wanted a ceasefire, sir, wouldn’t he have offered it before now?”

“Circumstances have changed, Harry.” And Dumbledore is taking a small leatherbound journal from his desk, penning a note inside with a great phoenix quill. As he closes it again, Harry just catches a glimpse of the stamped leather: _T.M. Riddle._

Fawkes is sent through the floo with it. “I expect he’ll be but a few minutes,” Dumbledore says, and peels back the wards of the floo to let in Voldemort. Which is _madness_ , and Harry is already gripping his wand when the flames roar to life again.

Voldemort is already mid-stride when the floo delivers him, the diary in one hand and his wand in the other. “What – is – this?” he spits, raising the diary high.

“Tom, sit down. We’ve got quite a lot to discuss. You didn’t bring Fawkes back with you?”

“Damn your bird, no.”

“Ah – No, Harry, you must stay as well. This is your fate as much as Voldemort’s.”

Somehow, some- _fucking_ -how, Harry and Voldemort end up in adjacent chairs at Dumbledore’s desk, as though they’re both unruly students caught fighting in the corridors. And Dumbledore lays it out methodically: that he has destroyed all of Voldemort’s Horcruxes, that Voldemort is now as near to mortal as he will ever be, and that a war under such circumstances seems ill-advised. “Show me,” Voldemort challenges. With a shrug, Dumbledore opens his desk and lines the damaged Horcruxes before him: a ring, a chalice, a locket, a diadem. Voldemort’s visage goes even paler.

And it is only when Harry sees these possession of Voldemort lined up before him that he understands _his_ role in this. The one Dumbledore had kept from him for – god, how long? Voldemort’s bodily return, at least. Perhaps longer, perhaps when Harry had handed him the diary in his second year. Or when he had not died when he was meant to, in infancy.

Still, he sits quietly as Voldemort seethes. “Yet you bring me here to tell me this. You don’t wish to kill me?”

“Well, no,” Dumbledore says. “Not on principle, however. There is one more Horcrux, one you didn’t intend. And… I am quite fond of him.”

Harry’s heart is in his throat. “I’d die if I have to,” he says to Voldemort directly. “You know that.”

“You are weak,” Voldemort mutters. Returning to Dumbledore: “I can offer a ceasefire, in exchange for Harry.”

Rather pointedly, Dumbledore says, “That is Harry’s decision.”

But it’s not, not really. He wouldn’t be sitting here if Dumbledore didn’t expect him to surrender himself for the Greater Good. He’d do it regardless. “Yes,” he says, when both pairs of eyes are on him. “I mean, I accept.”

“Good,” Voldemort says, not sounding as though he means it. “We will be married in three days.”

_Oh_.

The battle recedes rapidly after that. The Death Eaters are gone from the grounds, the wards of the castle are relaxed, the forbidden forest is charmed full of new growth. Harry doesn’t see Voldemort again, though he knows he’s here, locked away in Dumbledore’s office drafting a contract. Whatever, these sorts of negotiations don’t involve him. He spends those final few days packing and taking long walks with his friends by the lake.

He only tells them on the morning of, when they’re all gathered in the Gryffindor boys’ dorm. “We’re getting married. To seal the contract. It’s fine,” he adds, when Hermione makes a noise of disgust and disbelief. “It’s easier this way. If I’d known to offer it sooner, I would have.”

Ron clears his throat as though also swallowing his feelings. “No offense, mate, but what’s he want with you? Beyond, y’know, the obvious.”

“He won’t kill me,” Harry says plainly. “He can’t. Otherwise… I’m not sure. I’ll find out.”

“Yeah, you will.” In an act of pity, Ron tosses a box of exploding lollies into Harry’s open trunk.

That afternoon, Harry is pulled aside by Snape. “Come with me, Potter,” he says shortly, turning on his heel toward the dungeon.

“What? Is this about Voldemort?” He expects Snape has quite a few feelings about Harry just signing his life over, after years of Snape’s ostensible protection.

“I’m certainly not asking your input on any new potions. Hurry _up_.”

As Snape is uncharacteristically tense and exhausted-looking, Harry decides not to press his luck. He skips a few steps to keep up.

Into the Potions classroom, and then through it, to Snape’s private workspace. There are a half dozen cauldrons simmering on timers, but Snape brings him to the smallest one, filled with a potion that shimmers like an oil slick. “This will offer you protection.”

“How?”

“Do you still speak Parseltongue?”

“… Yes?”

“Good.” With a flourish of his wand, he bottles the potion. “Consume it before tonight.”

Snape isn’t going to tell him more. He’s probably concerned it constitutes betrayal of Voldemort, of a sort. “Thanks,” Harry says, slipping the bottle into his pocket. Snape is no longer looking at him.

Harry takes the potion, because he’s an idiot and his life is forfeit anyway. It seems to do nothing. He rinses the bitter taste from his mouth and goes to pull on dress robes.

The wedding happens without fanfare – Dumbledore officiates in his office, to Voldemort’s obvious chagrin, but it must happen like this. There are no witnesses, not even the portraits. They sign the wedding license that will also be their treaty. They don’t kiss; they don’t touch at all. And then Harry levitates his trunk and follows Voldemort into the floo.

He steps into a home with high ceilings and cold marble floors. He’d expected Malfoy Manor, but this looks nothing like what he’s seen of it. “Where are we?”

“Switzerland.”

“… Why?”

Voldemort casts an irritated look over his shoulder. “Because I live here. As do you. Your wing is that way.” He points a long finger behind Harry.

“Wait. Alright.” Harry tugs at the uncomfortable collar of his dress robes, biting into his throat. “What do you – _want_? What do you want me to do?”

“As I’ve already told Dumbledore – “

“Well, Dumbledore tells me nothing. So what do you _want_?”

He should have copped a Crucio for that, at least. Just because Voldemort can’t kill him doesn’t mean he can’t hurt him. But they’re still both being deliberate about not raising their wands to one another, because it’s a gesture that they can’t take back. Voldemort curls a hand around the back of a sofa as he speaks deliberately. “You’ll stay here. You will remain safe, away from any potential dangers. You will not become involved in politics, British or otherwise. That’s it.”

“Are we supposed to have sex tonight?” War has made Harry blunt and practical.

But Voldemort’s face contorts in apparent disgust. “No.”

“Okay. Cool. I’m going to bed then. ‘Night.”

He turns, but there’s a noise behind him, and a spell of binding vines shoots out to encircle him. He nearly trips, but then Voldemort is grabbing his shoulder, spinning him so they’re staring into each other’s faces. “Do not speak to me like that.”

Harry’s not intimidated, he’s just furious. “What would you like me to say? Goodnight, _husband_ ,” he enunciates, and he’s reaching to grab his wand between the vines at his wrist.

Voldemort gives him a curious look. Conjuring a glowing knife, he slices cleanly through the vines. Dramatic arsehole. Everyone else would have just cast _Finite_.

As Harry is dragging his trunk to his bedroom – it’s more physically satisfying that way – he’s tonguing his teeth, which suddenly feel strange and oversized in his mouth. He’s tired and he’s been too tense to eat today, he must be imagining it.

But he’s not. He closes the door to his bedroom, plunks down his trunk, and approaches the mirror. Inside his mouth are newly-formed fangs.

What the fuck. If these are permanent, he will kill Snape. What’s he meant to do, eat Voldemort?

Actually (he tests the tip of one fang on a fingertip) they’re sharp enough that he could. For his protection, indeed.

He enchants the trunk to unpack itself into the wardrobe as he walks the wing. It’s large, and furnished like Grimmauld Place but for more windows and lamps. There’s a bath like the Prefects’, and a tearoom, and a library. The only space he and Voldemort will be obligated to share downstairs are the kitchen and dining room.

They could probably go days scarcely seeing each other. It will be a relief.

Still, he sleeps in a long sleeved shirt and pyjama bottoms, not just his typical boxers. He doesn’t know quite how much privacy he can expect to have here.

Not that it matters. It feels as though he’s only just fallen asleep when he’s awoken again, by a sharp pain from his pelvis down his legs. “Ahh – “ His first sleepy thought is that Voldemort is on top of him, but Voldemort isn’t here, he’s alone and he’s got these leg cramps without any sort of analgesic potions –

He kicks off his bottoms, scrubbing his hands down his thighs – and then beneath his palms, he feels it happening. His legs fuse, sprouting glittering scales. His body becomes long, heavy, _sinewy_.

He pulls himself out of bed and a naga’s lower half glides to the floor.

Well.

It takes a moment for him to learn how to move this new… appendage, but he likes how he feels when he coils his lower half, making himself taller. He feels powerful. The fangs in his mouth make sense now.

He wonders if Snape intended for him to escape like this, or to fight, anything. He doesn’t think he wants to. As being a snake is colder than being a human, he piles firewood into the hearth and spends much of that first night awake, marveling at this change. When he finally drops off to sleep, he awakes again in the dawn with a human’s body once more.

Maybe the naga is only meant to keep Voldemort from bedding him at night. Which also doesn’t seem like a concern, at the moment.

Speaking of, Voldemort is gone by the time Harry rises and leaves his bedroom – not that he’s left a note or anything thoughtful like that, but the way Harry’s Horcrux stretches inside of him, Harry can just tell. He wanders downstairs, looking for house elves or servants or any other being, but he seems thoroughly alone.

Fine. Good. He finds his way to the cold cellar and carries up food for a lavish brunch.

When he’s sitting in front of a French omelette, an apple turnover, and a stack of lemon-glazed crepes, he thinks he might have overdone it.

Fuck it. War had made him reckless, but rations had starved them all, and this is now his home and his cold cellar too. He eats his omelette directly from the pan.

For the rest of the day, he wanders the house – he draws a bath, looks through all the cupboards, walks the grounds. He’d been allowed to bring Hedwig, thank god, so when night falls and she wakes, he goes to see her. “Long way from Hogwarts,” he says, leaning out the open window of the tower where she would roost. “But there’s nobody around for miles. You’ll have your choice of mice in that forest.” Hedwig tugs the front lock of his hair reassuringly before setting out.

It’s late that evening, and Harry has come downstairs for a cup of tea, when the front door swings open. Steeling himself: “Hi,” he calls in that direction, in case Voldemort would like to avoid him as well.

He does not. His boots click hard across the marble floor as he strides into the kitchen, finding Harry seated at the island counter. “Harry.”

“Voldemort,” he returns. “Hi. Ah.” He gestures with the butter knife he’s holding, warm toast before him. “Have you eaten?... _Do_ you eat?”

A peculiar look from Voldemort as he unbuttons his cloak, still dotted with snow. (He must have Apparated outside for the dramatic effect. How insufferable.) “I’ve come from dinner with Scrimgeour.”

Well, that answers both questions, after a fashion. “How is he?” When a dangerous silence unfurls: “What? I’m allowed to _ask_ about Britain.”

“Yet I’m not obligated to tell you anything.”

“No,” Harry agrees, biting into his toast before it goes cold, because honestly, fuck Voldemort. “You’re not.”

Voldemort is stepping back, surveying the kitchen, casting a cleaning spell to sweep over it even though Harry _just_ has. “You found the cellar.”

“Yeah. It’s nice.” Folding his legs beneath himself: “I expected you’d have house elves though. Or some sort of servant, I guess.”

“Domestic help are liabilities. And house elves are illegal in Switzerland.”

“And murder’s illegal in Britain, so what?”

Voldemort leans in across the counter, taking firm hold of Harry’s jaw. “The mouth on you tonight,” he marvels. (Ah, there it is, that – spark of obsession and hatred and everything else between them when they’d been enemies. Harry had been wondering where it had gone.) But then his index finger moves upward, pressing his lips apart. “Open.”

He couldn’t refuse. Opening his mouth, he allows Voldemort to see the curved fangs that have grown from his incisors. “Don’t touch them,” he mutters, making a half-motion to sit back when Voldemort runs a finger along the length. “They’re probably poisonous.”

“Venomous,” Voldemort corrects. “And yes, they certainly are. Unfortunately for you and whoever did this to you – “ he presses his thumb to the tip, puncturing his skin as he floods Harry’s mouth with his own bitter venom – “I was nourished by venom for years. It runs in my veins.” He lifts his thumb to his mouth, sucking off the dot of blood and venom. And then he goes.

Well. (Harry rises to spit this venom into the sink.) Whatever protection Snape had intended for him… this isn’t it.

At least Voldemort doesn’t yet know about his midnight transformation. Maybe it will still be useful.

He feels newly alive when his legs shift into his naga form again that night. His other senses seem heightened too: he understands the world through heat and vibration now, pulsating around him. Putting on a robe over his top half but leaving his bottom half coiled beneath him, he moves through the dark corridors to the library.

There are magizoology books, but everything they say is about real nagas, the ones who have been such from birth. He finds that there are communities of them in the Mediterranean and Middle East and South Asia. It makes sense: the cold of this climate is already seeping into his bones.

He’s tonguing his fangs absently as he reads, his tail unfurling before the hearth. And then deep into the house he hears a sound. He holds his breath. Nothing.

Days and days of this. Harry cooks, he eats, he reads. He learns useful barrier spells, that kept crumbs and oily fingerprints off the books so he can eat _as_ he reads. He walks the grounds, finding a pond and a vegetable garden, the latter covered in ice and straw. It is a life of idle luxury, and he can only hope that Britain is recovering from the war nearly so well.

And then there is his naga magic, which feels warmer and more vibrant with each transformation. He’ll slither through his wing of the house but no farther, not while he’s still learning Voldemort’s movements when he’s home. Perhaps this need not be a secret, but – he’s not ready to share his lithe form, imposed on him though it is, with anyone else.

Until Nagini.

It’s somewhere around Yule – Harry’s not watching the calendar, because all his days are the same now, but Voldemort is gone every night for some Ministry function or another. On this night, Harry’s not expecting him at all, so he’s free to go into the cold night air.

The grounds glitter, moonlight on snow, as Harry winds down a sloping path. He casts warming spells on himself, and barrier spells so his scales don’t catch on the branches and stones beneath him. He breathes deep.

And when there’s a motion in his peripheral vision, Harry can’t even register what’s happening before he’s tackled and pinned by a heavy weight.

Nagini’s face is close to Harry’s, her hood flared and fangs curving toward him. “ _Nagini_ ,” he huffs, trying to push her off, but she is coiling around his midsection, more deft than he’s learned to be yet. “ _Please get off_.”

“ _They took me away_ ,” she hisses. “ _They cut me open and put human magic on the wound. And now he is alone_.”

Harry had just assumed Dumbledore had killed Nagini, so this is quite merciful, really, but he’s not going to say so when her fangs are poised over his throat. “ _Sorry_?” he offers. “ _I had nothing to do with it._ ”

“ _But you are here_.”

“ _Voldemort brought me here. We’re married – Um, together. Allied. Mated_.” He wonders what conception of marriage a snake could possibly have, or what those words mean in Parseltongue. _Mated_ , ugh, but he goes on. “ _I’m living here now, in exchange for the end of the war. Please get off me_.”

She rears back, minutely easing the constriction around his lower half. “ _You still have his magic_.”

“… _Yeah, I do_.” And it’s all that’s holding Britain at peace now.

“ _I would kill you for it_ ,” she hisses, but then she’s lifting her body off his. She slithers off.

Well. He’d lost that spat. Even with arms! It’s humiliating.

On this night and the next, Harry slithers to the pond that sits in the middle of the grounds. It’s not quite iced over, and the water looks inviting. He re-casts the warming spell over himself, pulls off his robe, and dives in.

The water is crisp and clear, and the way his tail swirls behind him feels natural. He watches, coiling and twisting and diving deep toward the bottom. He is a _beast_ now, he belongs to the natural world, his magic belongs out here too. He loves this.

And then abruptly, he is wrenched upward, water forced up into his nose and sinuses. He’s slammed flat on his back onto the frozen reeds that surround the pond.

“Ugh – “ He hacks water from his lungs for a long moment. When he finally looks up, Voldemort is glaring down at him. “Oh,” Harry says, pushing his wet tendrils of hair from his forehead.

“I thought you’d elected to drown yourself,” Voldemort mutters, turning toward the house.

“Definitely not,” Harry says, filing away that thought, that Voldemort assumed he’d prefer death to this marriage, for another time. When Voldemort doesn’t look back: “ _Hey_ – Don’t you want to say something?”

Voldemort does stop. “Should I?”

“… Yes?” Harry is sitting up, coiling his lower half beneath him. He’s technically naked before Voldemort now, but he doesn’t feel it, as his cock now lies beneath a sort of indentation of his scales. Still, he reaches for his robe. “I mean, I’m a naga. At least at night.”

“You must have had reason to conceal it.”

While Voldemort is still infuriating, this is rather… thoughtful. “Maybe,” Harry says, dropping his glasses atop his nose. “But you’re here now.”

Voldemort gazes at him, his face as impassive as ever. Then: “Just go to bed, Harry.”

“I will,” he agrees, buttoning the last button of his robe. “But – would you tell Nagini she can’t kill me?”

It’s stupid, it’s profoundly stupid to want Voldemort’s company now. But these past few weeks have been _lonely_. Of course Harry would prefer to be in the warmth of the Burrow for the holidays, but he’s only got Voldemort, and if he understands what the Horcrux means, he and Voldemort have eternity together. So he’s lifting himself off the ground (it is so satisfying that he can look Voldemort in the eye with this form) and slides across the icy grass to catch up.

Voldemort may or may not have waited. “Nagini will not hurt you.”

“She’d like to.”

A flicker of maybe-amusement. “Yes. But she won’t.”

“Great. Thanks.” As they go back toward the manor, Harry can feel Voldemort’s gaze on him, watching the strength with which he moves now.

For some reason, he expects it will get simpler after that. It does not.

Harry is in their kitchen, just bringing up ingredients for dinner, when a white-hot pain shoots through his face, blinding him. “ _Fuck_ – “ He drops the sack of lentils on the countertop as he barely catches himself from falling.

Voldemort is furious. Harry had grown unused to sharing emotions, given how good Voldemort’s Occlumency is, but he’s forgotten it now. His hand clasped over his eyes as he fumbles to spell out the bright kitchen lights, Harry falls into a chair and puts his head down on the table.

Too late, much too late, when Voldemort finally apparates into the entry hall. Striding in, he snaps at Harry, “Sit up.”

His face is on fire, his eyes feel swollen. “Fix your fucking Occlumency.”

Silence. A flourish of magic. First he hears the spilled lentils being swept away ( _bastard_ , that he’d deal with the mess first), and then an analgesic spell rushing over him. Thank fuck. Lifting his head from the table: “ _What_?”

“Nothing relevant to you.”

“None of it is relevant to me anymore, is it,” Harry mutters, wiping stray tears off his face. And then he’s getting up, gesturing to the ingredients spread across the countertop. “Do you want daal?”

Voldemort glares. “No,” he says, and storms out.

Fucking fine. Harry lights the stove and pours a glass of wine.

But he’s only just plating the daal as Voldemort re-enters the kitchen. And Harry glances over his shoulder, hands Voldemort the bowl, and serves himself another. They settle across from each other at the dining room table, wine between them.

Voldemort breaks the silence. “They executed Bellatrix today.”

“Oh.” He sets down his spoon. “Why?” Voldemort’s look is cold. “I mean, war crimes, sure, whatever. I thought everyone would be – pardoned, though, I guess.”

“I was. They were not.”

Well, that’s shit for the Death Eaters, but Harry knows better than to say so. “Sorry,” he offers instead, and Voldemort gives him a curious look.

Silence as they eat. Then: “You are coming to the inauguration.”

Inauguration? He didn’t expect Ministry turnover so quickly. “Sure.” He knows he’s not entitled to ask anything more.

“Can you grow a beard?”

Harry blinks at the question. “When is the inauguration?”

“A week’s time.”

“Then no, I can’t grow a beard in a week.”

“Come.” Voldemort pushes his chair back, so Harry grabs his wine glass and does the same.

He follows Voldemort into the other half of the house – and it’s nothing like a mirror image of his own. Dark tapestries line the walls, their subjects peering at Harry with curiosity as he passes. He gives them a little smile.

They end up in a potions lab, where Voldemort is flipping open a thick book and pulling down ingredients. Harry slides onto a stool across from him, watching.

The potion isn’t difficult, but it is time-consuming. And it’s not that Harry minds waiting – really, he’d been curious what this side of the manor contained, so it’s a good time to examine it, but he gets the sense that Voldemort is waiting.

When the moon is high in the sky: “I want to see your transformation.”

Right. Of course. It’s not painful, just a bit awkward, until Harry gets his serpentine body beneath him. “Okay. It’ll be soon.”

“Yes.”

Voldemort is decanting the potion as Harry feels the shifting and grinding in his pelvis. He slides from the stool, and he’s trying to be subtle about it, but Voldemort fixes him with a look. “Undress.”

“Ah….” Dammit, Voldemort hasn’t made him do anything by force yet, but he _could_ , it’s his right to per their contract. “It’s cold in here.”

With a noise of impatience, Voldemort takes him by the shoulders and pulls him into an adjacent bedroom. And it _is_ warmer, and Harry can feel his hips widening, such that he’s going to tear the waistband of his jeans soon. Reaching down, he unbuttons them.

Voldemort has stepped back, and he’s no longer touching Harry, but he’s _watching_ him, in this way he’s never been looked at before. And… and he really doesn’t want to get hard. Dammit.

He dated in school – Ginny for a year before she took him aside and told him plainly that it was obvious that she wanted to date girls and he wanted to date blokes. Then Cormac McLaggen, who was the worst rebound and they made everyone around them miserable. Then Dean, during the war, and Dean was great but they’d broken it off when Dumbledore had asked him to lead a group of Muggleborn students into France. So Harry’s stood naked before people before, but it’s nothing like _this_. He unbuttons his robe and lets it fall from his shoulders.

And then his hips swell farther, and he can’t avoid it any longer. Kicking off his shoes, unzipping his jeans. Gleaming scales are already emerging at his hipbones. He hooks a thumb in the waistband of his shorts, looking to the ceiling as he drops them.

The scales ripple across his hips, down his thighs, forming his sinewy serpentine lower body. And then Voldemort is stepping in close, and he’s grabbing where Harry’s hips had been – ostensibly to steady him, but they both jolt at the magic of their touch. _Oh_. Harry wants that.

The Horcrux tugs, pulling them together. _Soulmates_. It’s a stupid, saccharine concept, and the Horcrux is a perversion of it, but neither of them would believe in it otherwise if their flesh weren’t buzzing with the _togetherness_ of it all.

“I prefer you like this,” Voldemort says. Parseltongue. They’d avoided Parseltongue before now, even as Harry’s new fangs draw out his sibilant words.

He can’t think. His lower body elongates, his tail stretching out ten, twelve feet behind him. The very tip twitches, curious and a bit provoked. “You did this to me, then.” Snape must still be taking orders from Voldemort.

A curious look. “No.”

He’s got no reason to lie. Harry’s self-consciousness melts away, now that he’s taller and stronger than Voldemort. He could _eviscerate_ him, hold him down and tear out his throat with his fangs. And yet –

“I need to see you move.” Voldemort is watching hungrily. And when Harry doesn’t, he grabs his upper arm. “Now – “

Harry rears back, his fangs out. “You can do better than that,” he hisses.

“Harry.” Voldemort’s tone goes honeyed, persuasive. Their magic burns brighter. It is intoxicating. Together they are so strong and so powerful.

So Harry coils, uncoils. Coils, uncoils. He glides across the bedroom, letting Voldemort watch. And when he reaches the bed, he’s curious whether he can lift himself like a normal snake, so he wraps himself around the bedpost, testing it. And he pulls himself up.

Coil, uncoil. He uses a hand to steady himself, but his snake half is muscular enough to support him as he climbs. And when he’s dangling upside down from the horizontal beam of the bedcurtains, he gives a wry glance to Voldemort. “Like this?”

And Voldemort, more color in his pale cheeks than usual, strides across the room to grab his shoulders and, with Harry still dangling upside down, kiss him.

It’s rough, unpracticed. Harry’s fangs click against Voldemort’s teeth, and he tastes his own bitter venom leaking into their mouths once again. He swallows and slips his tongue between Voldemort’s teeth.

And then Voldemort is sliding onto the bed below him, and Harry still dangles, pressing kisses down onto Voldemort’s mouth. Their magic _burns_.

And finally Harry slides from the bedframe, onto the soft sheets. Sex for him before had been hurried, in the dark and quiet, a respite from the war. This is… not that. He doesn’t know what this is, but his magic is pulling him close to Voldemort, pressing his erection against Voldemort’s thigh.

He’s only half-thinking about it as his snake body begins to curl around Voldemort’s legs. And then he’s leaning over him, popping the buttons of his robe by hand rather than spelling it off, because it’s better like that. It is _so_ satisfying to flip open his robe and find that Voldemort is hard too.

“Harry.” Voldemort pulls Harry’s grip off his shoulder. “Have you done this before?”

“ _Yes_.”

Voldemort is amused at his indignation, goddamn him. Lifting a hand with a permissive wave: “Onward, then.” And then, wandlessly, he summons lube. “And – “ he gestures farther down. “Harder.”

So Harry constricts around his legs, his thighs, his waist. He is powerful like this. He is _hungry_. When he presses a kiss to Voldemort’s exposed throat, his fangs brush the delicate skin, and there’s a soft intake of breath.

He’d expected Voldemort naked to be monstrous and serpentine as he is, but he’s just angular and pale, and the dark flush of his cock curving against his stomach is wonderful. When Harry rubs him, he arches, his eyelids fluttering closed.

But they end up with Voldemort on his knees, Harry fingering him open. And because Harry’s naga features are clearly _erotic_ to Voldemort, his tail is coiled around Voldemort’s legs, running beneath his stomach. And then Voldemort is reaching down, running fingers along the underside of his tail – and first it tickles in a nice way, but then Voldemort is slipping two fingers _inside_ him, into a slit that Harry hadn’t thought much about.

Harry groans, his tail twisting up and around Voldemort’s body, giving him more access to this orifice. And Voldemort is rubbing more firmly, and something is swelling inside him, and – and then Voldemort is pressing into the flesh there, and something large and stiff emerges.

Harry chokes. “A hemipenis,” Voldemort says, as though that answers much of anything, before running his tongue first along one prong of the Y-shaped cock, then the other.

Harry’s hands are gripping Voldemort’s hips now, the rest of him useless. His arousal runs down the entire length of his spine, through his tail. Embarrassingly, when Voldemort draws his hemipenis into his mouth and sucks deep, Harry might have sobbed.

Voldemort lifts his mouth again: “For god’s sake, at least finish inside me. Can you manage that?”

Bastard. Harry wishes he had hair to pull. “Yes,” he says, and smears a handful of lube across Voldemort’s hole.

It does take a lot to restrain himself, to push deep into Voldemort and fill him with his human cock. Voldemort seems to _prefer_ the hemipenis, bobbing down on as much will fit into his mouth at a time. A loop of Harry’s tail around Voldemort’s middle holds up his weight, pulling Voldemort backwards onto his cock, and it’s just – it’s just –

Harry’s head is swimming. The naga half doesn’t sweat of course, but his human half is slick and warm, wet hands grabbing at Voldemort’s narrow hips. He has single-handedly _spitroasted_ Voldemort, the delightful thought crosses his addled brain, and he laughs in the midst of their rhythmic panting and slap of flesh. He could lift Voldemort just like this and plunge him onto his cock, he could shove his hemipenis down his throat, and by all accounts Voldemort would love it. He constricts his tail a bit tighter, to feel Voldemort groan as the scales ripple past his erection. Together, they’re desperate, breathless, full of lust and magic –

And then a sharp surge goes from the base of Harry’s neck, through his hips and cock, down the naga half of his body. His tail constricts tighter, he’s shoving himself into the heat of Voldemort’s arse, he can feel Voldemort swallowing his hemipenis to the back of his throat. He arches, fingers scoring bright scratches down Voldemort’s bare back, and shoots his load inside him. The orgasm ripples from one cock to the other.

And Voldemort is gasping, pushing himself backward, and Harry can barely think to rub his scales against his erection before he’s also climaxing, choking around his hemipenis.

They collapse.

Harry withdraws, but his body still coils alongside Voldemort’s, as he is warm and loose and soft for the moment. And Harry’s still staring up at the canopy as he says, “You’ve done this before. Fucked a naga.” When Voldemort only makes a non-committal noise, he looks over, aghast. “Or you’ve fucked actual snakes. Which is it?”

“The nagas,” Voldemort agrees. “I didn’t expect you’d come to me like this. I have not asked why. But nevertheless, I enjoy it.”

Harry doesn’t know why himself. He hopes to god Snape didn’t do this to cater to Voldemort’s whims. Still… this is nice. Voldemort hasn’t _got_ to be coy or charming or pleasant – it’s within the boundaries of their contract that if he wants sex, he’d simply say so. But this way is better. “Yeah,” he says, and sleepily charms the fire in the grate warmer.

Harry ends up in Voldemort’s bedroom every night that week. They don’t fuck the same way each time – the next night, Voldemort fucks his cloaca and comes twice; after that, Harry pins Voldemort on his back and constricts him from his shoulders to his hips as he penetrates him. It’s good, it’s always really good.

And Voldemort never throws him out afterward, but Harry always wakes up alone in an empty house.

The rest of the world moves on. Voldemort made arrangements to have a tailor come to their home and fit Harry with a dress robe – already picked out, it’s this structured and imposing piece in dark blue that ages him about thirty years. Nagini has slithered in to watch, which is making the tailor _very_ jumpy, but when she hisses, “ _He looks like he is dying_ ,” Harry thinks he can grow to like her.

So they end up charming his dress robe a lighter, less funereal blue, with silver and gold filament at the hems. He’s got a scruff of a beard from days of applying the potion, but then Voldemort charms it to grow in (which, by the way, is really just yanking the hair from beneath his skin, and it fucking hurts), and his jawline is defined for the first time in his life. Voldemort meets his gaze in the mirror: “Finally you don’t look like a student.”

“I haven’t been a student in a long time,” Harry mutters. There are lines on his face that an eighteen year old shouldn’t have, but the war will always be imprinted on him in this way. Regardless, he allows Voldemort to pull the robe from his shoulders in a gallant gesture, before turning to precisely how they’re going to charm his hair to lie flat.

They’re both awake early on the morning of the inauguration – so early that Harry catches his own transformation back to human, which happens in the grey pre-dawn each morning. He lies in bed listening to Voldemort shower in the en suite bath. They’ve developed an intimacy beyond sex recently – and it’s backwards from every relationship Harry’s had before, where the romance comes before the sex, but… well, even now Voldemort is wary of any sort of emotional intimacy or vulnerability. Harry knows it’s a lot, that he’s been allowed to sleep here each night rather than being sent back to his half of the manor. He’s got an extra toothbrush in this loo, when he doesn’t want to schlep back to his own. Neither of them has any idea what marriage or domesticity or being literal soulmates is meant to entail, but they’re trying it out, being husbands.

Voldemort re-enters the bedroom, sleek and nude after the shower. He barely falters when he finds Harry awake, then opens his wardrobe. “We’re leaving by nine.”

“Cool. D'you want breakfast?” He’s throwing the covers off himself.

Voldemort gives him a somewhat pained look. “Harry. You’re not here as – domestic help.”

“I know. God. I’m only offering.”

“… Yes. Thank you.”

So they end up in the kitchen, Voldemort with a scroll at the table as Harry wanders into the cellar for potatoes. And when he’s returning, he glances over Voldemort’s shoulder, at a page of angular writing. “You’re giving a speech?”

“Of course I’m giving a speech.”

Rude. Charming a mandoline to julienne the potatoes: “What about?”

Voldemort looks up, incredulous. “What every Minister’s acceptance speech is about, really.”

“Oh my god.” He slaps a hand to his forehead, narrowly avoiding taking out his eye with his wand. “I didn’t realize it was _your_ inauguration. They made you the Minister?”

“Yes,” Voldemort hisses, needled. “Why the hell would I attend someone else’s inauguration?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know why you do anything.” Harry tips the potatoes into a hot frying pan; they pop and sizzle. “This is…. What about the Muggleborns?”

“The Muggleborns will be fine.”

“And my friends. Hogwarts. _Dumbledore_.”

Voldemort flinches, and Harry thinks it’s at Dumbledore’s name until Voldemort draws his wand and forcibly pulls Harry into a chair, casting a calming spell over him. “Why have you never learned Occlumency,” he mutters. “If you panic like this later today, I swear to Merlin….”

“Tell me what you’re going to do to them.”

“ _Nothing_ ,” he enunciates. “I will preserve Hogwarts, I’ll even preserve Dumbledore, as little as he deserves it. Harry – “ He reaches across the table, curling his fingertips into the backs of Harry’s hands. “What do you think this marriage _is_ , if not your preservation of Britain? They will be safe.”

And what can Harry do but believe him? Their magic is warm, familiar, whole where they touch. It’s all he has, really, to have any purchase in Voldemort’s life. It’s got to be enough. “Okay,” he says, running a thumb over Voldemort’s hand as he extricates his own. “In that case – congratulations. Good luck.”

Voldemort’s look indicates that he thinks luck has got nothing to do with it. Harry gets up to stir the potatoes.

As they eat, Harry lets Voldemort talk. Hogwarts needs repairs; the contracts with Gringotts need to be renegotiated before a recession hits; the families of the war dead will get reparations not because Voldemort honestly cares but because it will stimulate a lagging economy. “What can I do?” Harry asks, because it still feels like _his_ war, even after it’s over.

“You will join me as necessary. Your presence carries tacit approval. I don’t care if you actually approve.”

Harry’s got to smile at the… whatever, prickliness. “I think I can live with that.”

Voldemort looks surprised at his amiability. “Can you?”

“I want what’s best for everyone. Including you.”

“… Thank you.”

Finally Harry gets into his dress robes, spelling his hair and beard neat, putting a glamour over his fangs to avoid those questions. They take the floo, and he’s back on British soil for the first time since their wedding.

The inauguration will be held in a massive ballroom of the Ministry, and as they approach, everyone is bustling around Voldemort and shooting Harry curious glances without actually interacting with him. Upon reaching the ballroom, Voldemort turns to him. In Parseltongue: “I’ll need you at the dais in an hour. Journalists have been told not to talk to you; send them to me if they attempt to anyway.”

Harry’s looking out at the crowd. “What am I supposed to say to everyone?”

“Whatever is true, I suppose.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.” He sees someone he needs to speak to. “Go. Return in an hour.”

Freedom. Human contact. He’s missed it.

His friends find him before he finds them, as Hermione flings her arms around his neck and squeezes. “We hadn’t heard _anything_ about you – Voldemort wouldn’t say – oh Harry, how _are_ you?”

They’re worried. They have been worried, and Harry feels a pang of deep guilt, as his life has got to be simpler than the restoration of Hogwarts. “I’m fine,” he says, extricating himself gently. “It’s all been fine. How is Britain?”

“Well… good? Easier now,” Hermione says in an exhalation. “The inauguration will help, and the new Wizengamot. I expect you don’t know everything that’s happened.”

Harry grabs a glass of champagne (it’s only 10 a.m. but whatever) off a tray as it floats past. “No,” he says. “Tell me everything.”

The six of them end up huddled over a standing table, recounting the post-war negotiations. Voldemort has signed a lot of agreements and peace treaties in the past month, and even if it’s only because he cares about the survival of himself, Harry, and possibly Hogwarts – it’s enough. It’s the most bloodless way to exit the war, so that’s what everyone has agreed to do. And Harry doesn’t want to tell his friends he’s proud of Voldemort, that sounds mental, but – well, he is.

In a lull, Ginny asks, “And how is… Switzerland?”

He laughs. “Yeah. I couldn’t even tell you where, exactly. It’s quiet. A little boring.”

“Professor Snape says there’s a band of nagas who live nearby,” Luna volunteers. “He says you are probably better suited to the company of beasts anyway.”

_Oh_. Setting aside that Snape was being a total dick – that must be what he’d intended the naga magic for. So Harry might forge an alliance, with creatures who could defend him or take him away from Voldemort. And he might have wanted that earlier, but he doesn’t now.

He’ll tell his friends about his naga enchantment later. Not now. So he smiles at Luna. “I haven’t seen them yet. The grounds go on forever – you should come see them sometime, it’s really a nice area…. But the only snake I’ve talked to is Nagini, and – well, I think she’s jealous?” he says. Ron laughs, Neville frowns, Luna only nods as though it’s what she’d expected. “But she’s stopped threatening to eat me, so – “ He raises his champagne glass in a celebratory gesture.

And finally it’s time to rejoin Voldemort at the dais. Harry hands off his glass to an elf, weaves his way through the crowd, and finds Voldemort from the warmth of their conjoined magic alone. “Hey,” he says in Parseltongue, drawing close so nobody could hear them anyway. “I’m happy for you.”

Voldemort takes his eyes off the crowd to shoot Harry a skeptical look. “Are you?”

“Yeah. Even if you’re going to say it doesn’t matter to you.”

“It matters to me a great deal.” And as they’re climbing the stairs to the stage, Harry slips his hand into Voldemort’s, and Voldemort lets him. The Horcrux hums in their touch, satisfied.


End file.
